A Night in the Red Keep
by Ramzes
Summary: Maekar used to say the throne was his punishment for the blow that slew his brother - the deed that forever robbed him of peace. Even after defeating a new outlaw lord.


_Disclaimer: I disclaim._

**A Night in the Red Keep**

King's Landing appeared in view late in the afternoon but they didn't make it to the Red Keep until well into the evening – there were crowds every inch of the way, throwing flowers, singing praises to the gods for being saved from yet another rebellious army and chanting his name.

Maekar smiled and raised his hand. It was what one did. If the people of Westeros were glad to cheer him, he'd be even more cold and heartless than he was not to give them their moment of joy. No one needed to know that the smile was a false one.

It hadn't ended. It would never end, not in the next twenty or thirty years.

The effort of riding with these wounds had exhausted him. Maesters had warned him to rest and keep the wounds undisturbed. He had disregarded their advice, of course. The last thing his army needed was a day or three of inaction while he healed. The looting would have been a sure thing.

At his right, Aegon leaned at him. "How are you feeling?" he asked softly. "You don't look so good."

Miraculously, the boy had gotten away without as much as a scratch. Maekar only needed to look at him to feel his spirit lifting. "I am fine," he said.

His son didn't look convinced but didn't press the matter.

In the forecourt of the Red Keep, a boy about seven came running toward them. Maekar leaned from his saddle and caught him before the lad could bump into his horse. Then, he shook him so hard that the boy's teeth clattered. "Why do you do such dangerous things?" he asked angrily.

The boy only grinned at him, completely unafraid. He was missing a tooth. "Welcome home, Your Grace," he said.

Maekar smiled – his grim resolve never held up when faced with this grin – and lifted him high in the air, to the enthusiastic cheers of the crowd. Then, after his battlehorse had negotiated the last few foots, he dropped the boy in Rhae's outstretched arms but the little scoundrel did not stay long enough for his mother to get a grip on him: he ran for his father who was just dismounting. Aegon grabbed him and threw him high up in the air before catching him and carrying him over to Rhae. Then, he took her in his arms and pressed his face to her hair. She came to greet her father – Maekar could now see that she was obviously tired and obviously heavy with child – before heading for her chambers, holding tight to Aegon's hand. The boy trotted after them. Maekar smiled again. At least three people in this palace were happy.

He wanted nothing so much as to get away from everyone and just sleep. In his rooms, he headed straight for the small bathhouse adjacent to his bedchamber, waving off the servant who was just adding some cold water. The bath was scalding hot and he closed his eyes, relishing it. Still, it did not bring him composure. Instead, now that he was alone, the old questions came back, running in different shape and form but the same any way, circling in his head: what should he do? He had crushed the rebellion… this rebellion. But there would be a new one. There always was. Peace in Westeros had passed away along with his father, it seemed. _Or was it even earlier? Along with Baelor?_ he wondered. He could see no way around this. Wars and rebellions were on the rise and he could only crush them one by one, to only a little shorter cost for the kingdom from the one Westeros would have paid if the rebels had _won_. How many crops should his subjects lose to loots? How many more still silent forms would they have to bury? How many more times would he have to thank the gods for keeping Aegon safe in battle? What was the world the lively Duncan, sweet Rhaelle, and kind Jaehaerys would grow up into? Why had it come to this? _Baelor,_ he thought, _it all started with Baelor._ He had been punished by being burdened with the throne and the entire Seven Kingdoms shared his punishment, it seemed. What could he do? How could he stop the Blackfyres, Bittersteel, the outlaws here, in the very land of Westeros? How should he live from now on? Was there a time or place when he wouldn't be forced to fight to defend a crown he had never wanted, when he wouldn't hear the whispers behind his back, when he wouldn't be forced to swing the mace he had killed his brother with? What should he do?

The answer was: what he was doing right now. And the chill it gave him could not be melted by any amount of steaming water.

When he finally emerged from the bath and went back to his room, he found out that someone was waiting for him there. Someone who was not a servant but was familiar with one's duties.

"The things you do to yourself…"

Maekar frowned. He did not understand. Then, he looked at himself and saw. The seams on his wounds had burst open, the flesh around them blackened and sprinkled with blood. His skin was so reddened as if he had tried to burn himself. He even saw blisters here and there.

"I bathe hot but this… Were you trying to boil yourself, or what?"

Deft hands touched cubs of ice wrapped in towels to his burning skin. Maekar had not even registered that he had almost scalded himself, he had been so deep in thought. Now, he registered it… more than fully.

"I'd call the maesters but I know you won't let me."

"That's right," he confirmed. "I won't."

"Then, I'll take care of these."

He sat on the edge of his bed and she placed ice cubs on the deep ragged gashes on his shoulder and ribs. Frowned at the sight.

"What a blow it must have been! Your armour practically cut into you. I suppose it broke and the pieces went deep in?"

He didn't answer. She dressed the wounds and made a step back to examine her work. Then, she gave a nod of satisfaction.

"Come here," he said and drew her closer. She rested her head against the shoulder that bore no wounds, then suddenly drew back and made a few steps aside with her back to him.

Maekar frowned. "What's wrong, Aelinor?"

She was still not facing him. "The gossipers in the Red Keep… they keep whispering things that upset me. They say you can't stay committed to a woman my age and with my… lack of experience in certain areas. That you'll need some younger ones. That I won't be the only one and that's why you'll only be with me out of pity while looking for pleasure… somewhere else."

He sighed, unsurprised by the rumours. Tongues had been wagging ever since he had first taken her to his bed. The fact that they were openly living together without bothering with the Faith's opinion too much delighted the gossipers to no end. But he was stunned that she actually listened to them. It was not like Aelinor at all.

Still… she had spent thirty years – her best years – unwanted and unloved by her husband. This alone could make her an easy target for any malicious rumour. Now, Aelinor was vulnerable in ways he would have never considered in their youth.

He stood up and stood behind her, stroked the hair from her cheek. "Come here," he said and kissed the place where her neck and shoulder met. "Do I look anything like our lord grandfather?"

This was so unexpected that Aelinor had to laugh. "Not quite! You lack in bulk and with too few jewels about your person. In fact, I don't recall ever seeing you with one."

"Memory serves you well. Why, then, would you think I'd follow his example in another aspect?"

She was silent, he didn't add anything either, just held her by the waist. She pressed his hands closer against her.

"If I needed a younger woman," Maekar said. "I would have taken one. But I chose you. And your skills in those areas you mentioned are improving quickly. Let them talk."

She smiled slightly. "I am being stupid, aren't I?"

"Maybe a little," he acknowledged. Her insecurities made him feel sad. For a moment, he remembered her as she had been prior to her wedding – a vibrant young princess with many admirers, the world at her feet. For all his many makings and good intentions, Aerys had done her much evil without meaning to.

After a while, Aelinor drew back and examined his face. "What is it?" she asked. "You look as if you haven't brought us a victory but a grievous defeat instead."

He shook his head. "What I brought you was a little respite," he said. "It will start again, Aelinor. It won't end, ever. And I can't find a way around it."

She bit her lip. If he was so dejected after a victory, she feared to think how he would be after a loss.

"Come on," she said. "Let's sit down. Should I call the servants to bring us dinner?"

Maekar sat back on the bed. "No," he said. "Come here."

He undid the laces of her gown and she sat down next to him, clad in her shift only. "You are very weary, aren't you?" she asked.

He looked at her, slightly surprised. "How can you tell?"

"I can…"

Maekar held out his hands and turned them, palms upwards. "I look at them and I wonder what else they can do, except cause pain and death," he murmured.

_This again._ Aelinor closed her eyes. So many years had passed, and it was still that. She opened her eyes and touched his fingers. "They can be tender, as well, Maekar," she said softly. "When they touch me, I melt."

"It isn't enough," he said bitterly. "I always think of what I did with them. The worst part is that I don't remember. I don't recall the blow. Sometimes I feel like banging my head against the wall and see whether it helps. Who knows, it might call the memory back…"

Her skin crawled. "No!" she said and gripped his hands tighter. "Promise me you won't do anything this stupid, ever."

He looked at her and gave her the smile that always broke her heart, since their childhood. The smile he smiled because he never learned how to cry. The smile of utter despair.

"Never fear," he said. "I'll never do it. If there is something that scares me worse than not remembering, it is actually remembering…"

This was quite the concession for Maekar who had always despised fear, his own most of all. Aelinor touched his cheek. "It's been so long," she said. "You didn't mean it. I know you didn't. It was just a mishap. Why do you still think of it?"

"Because if it wasn't for me, he would have still been alive!"

"If it wasn't for you, he would have died two years before Redgrass Field! And even if it wasn't for you, he might have still perished from the plague, like third of King's Landing did! And if it wasn't for this or that… you need to stop. Truly. And you need to stop thinking of this throne as a punishment. If it wasn't for Aerys' reluctance to touch me, things might have turned out quite differently."

Her tone was harsh but Maekar took no offence. They had never minced words with each other. He lay down, taking her with him. "I think I sometimes hated him," he said. "But I never wanted him to die."

Still, in some of his dreams he wanted it. He would startle awake and then lie in his tent horrified, unable to make the distinction between dream and memory. Battles always made it worse. When he was at King's Landing or Summerhall, he'd dream of that terrible trial only a few times a month and when he woke up in terror, he could fall asleep anchored to reality by the feeling of Aelinor's arms around him and the soothing murmur of her voice; during the last campaign dreams had come to him a few times a week, robbing him of any semblance of sleep.

Aelinor touched a hand to his eyes, as if literally forcing him to fall asleep. "Close your eyes," she said. "Rest. You've just come back from a battle. Everything will be better tomorrow. You'll see. Go to sleep…"

_Please,_ she prayed silently. _Please, let him sleep tonight…_

He closed his eyes and held her closer, suddenly grateful that for now, it was over, that she was here, that he'd have something to reach for when he woke up in the pitch of the night, tormented by the thoughts of battles, outlaws, dead bodies and a swing of mace he couldn't quite remember…


End file.
